


It All Comes Down to Blood

by shealynn88



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Blood, Incest, M/M, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-31
Updated: 2007-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: What if it hadn't been Deb? (Spoilers for 1X12, season finale)
Relationships: Dexter/Brian
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	It All Comes Down to Blood

Deb still calls me three times a day—six, one and seven, give or take. Before work, after lunch, and as soon as she gets home. She’d deny it, but my sister is a creature of habit.

By this time I know it’s her, but I still take my cell out of my pocket and look at the name and number before I put it back, unanswered.

About a week after it was over and we were four states away, Brian told me that it had almost been her on that table. He’d changed his mind at the last minute and given me a stranger.

There are a lot of reasons I don’t answer the phone. This is the biggest, I think—the looming question...could I have fed her to this darkness inside of me? Could I have set myself free at her expense?

My chest still tightens when I think about Deb’s eyes glazing and going blank.

I hear the glass door open behind me. “Dex?” His voice is gentle. “I’m making dinner.”

I nod and lift my face to the sun, stretching my fingers against the rough wood of the lounge chair on the deck. “I’ll be right in,” I mumble. The condo (and the chair) used to belong to an older couple we met at the supermarket.

There are still pieces of them in the freezer.

They were in line when we were picking up supplies; Brian struck up a conversation. He has a way of connecting to people that I don’t think I’ll ever master—he sculpts them effortlessly until they want what he wants.

He really is an artist, my brother.

I get up slowly and head inside, leaving the warmth of the setting sun behind me.

The kitchen is bright white and Brian keeps it spotless. We may have our shortcomings, my brother and I, but we’re very compatible in our need for cleanliness and order. Living with Deb would drive me crazy—she thrives on clutter.

“Can you grab me the lettuce?” he asks, slicing carrots rapidly on the huge butcher block.

I nod and turn toward the refrigerator just in time to hear the sudden halt of the knife and Brian’s sharp intake of breath.

I turn back and the carrots are smeared red; thick drops of blood are falling onto the butcher block and sliding down Brian’s wrist as he raises his hand and watches with detached interest.

I’m good with blood. I don’t like it, but I _know_ it. I’ve seen every way it can be removed from the human body, and I’ve practiced quite a few. I’m not exactly squeamish.

But this isn’t just blood—it’s my _brother's_ blood. I start to feel numb and vaguely panicked. I step backward. “I’ll get a towel,” I tell him quietly. The linen closet is behind me. There are kitchen towels in the drawer next to him, but I can’t make myself move closer.

He shakes his head slowly. “Don’t worry about it,” he says casually. Blood drips off his elbow and his dark eyes catch mine. “Come here,” he says. His voice is low and intimate—the dangerous reality behind the mask he wears.

I smile nervously. I don’t want to be closer; I don’t want to watch him bleed. The dreams of the little boy have faded, but I’m afraid they’ll be replaced if I get too close.

I don’t want his blood on me.

“Dexter.” His voice is low and commanding. He’s my mentor, my family—he’s the one who helped free me. He reminds me of all of that with one word, and I find myself stepping forward.

“You look scared, little brother,” he murmurs, and I flinch a little when he reaches for me with his bloodied hand. If it were anyone else’s blood, I’d be fine.

I shake my head, no.

“I’ll never leave you,” he promises, and this time when he reaches out, I’m still.

He slides his finger messily across my mouth and I taste salt and copper, still warm from pounding through his veins. “Family, Dex,” he whispers. “This is our blood. You don’t have to be afraid. Never again.” His eyes are black when he looks down at me, and they shine with the barest hint of a smile. This isn’t the smile he shows the world—it’s not innocent or gentle. This smile is feral and dark, and the tips of his canines show as the wolf smile widens.

This is what I want. This is what I want to _be_.

His lips touch mine and we share his blood between us. He curls his hand against my neck and opens his mouth until I’m breathing salt and something wild. I feel his blood sliding down the back of my neck—his fingers are slick with it as they trace lazy circles against my spine.

We stay in his bed in the morning, so Brian’s lying next to me when my cell buzzes. She’s right on schedule. He leans over me, muscles rolling, and bends his elbow to kiss me until I can’t breathe.

Then he picks up the phone and rolls back, opening it with long fingers and staring at the name and number. Finally, he clicks it closed and looks over at me. “You okay?” he asks, and there’s an intimate edge to the gentleness that makes me shiver.

I nod slowly and he slams the phone into the end table until the pieces litter the floor.

“Just you and me,” he murmurs.

I twine my fingers with his, pausing to look at the gash between his thumb and index fingers and the rust-colored stains that go all the way to the elbow.

“Family,” I say, and he smiles that wolfish smile.


End file.
